Page 8 of Her Naughty Billionaire

He leans against his dresser, gripping the edge tight enough that I can see the veins bulging in his forearms. He looks like he's trying to maintain control... and losing.

Before I can turn away, I catch him slip one hand beneath the waistband of his boxers. His breathing becomes more labored, and a wave of heat courses through me as he frees his cock. Even in the shadows, I can tell that it's hard and big, certainly larger than any I've encountered before. He begins to stroke himself, his body barely shifting as his hand works up and down his shaft.

I want to run, but I can't make my feet move. I stand frozen as he stokes himself, seeming to grow larger in his hand. A warm, pulsing ache spreads between my legs. I squeeze them together, trying to bring some kind of relief, but it only makes me more aware of my wetness.

His moans become louder and he moves his hips in time with each stroke. His hand slips lower to rub his balls and then slides back up again as he quickens his thrusts.

And then, just when he's about to come, he calls out my name. “Sophia!” He throws his head back and groans as his body quakes with pleasure. His cock shudders in his grasp as he comes, milky white spilling onto the carpet.

Somehow both mortified and incredibly turned on, I quickly turn and run back to my room, hurriedly shutting and locking the door behind me. Leaning against it, I try to catch my breath. My body hums with an electric awareness of him, a yearning for something I don't understand and can't explain.

My back pressed to the door, I slide one hand beneath my pajama bottoms. I’m already warm and wet. Without hesitation, I slip two fingers inside myself as I imagine it's Victor touching me instead. His strong body pressed against mine as he pushes into me harder and faster, my name spilling from his lips like a curse. My thumb circles my clit and my hips rock against my hand. Before long, a powerful orgasm ripples through me, taking away all thought but him.

I collapse breathlessly on my bed, even more confused now than I was at dinner. I want to hate Victor—Ishouldhate Victor—but at the same time, I can't help but be intrigued. His arrogance clashes with moments of unexpected vulnerability, creating a wildfire of emotions inside me.

As the night deepens and sleep finally washes over me, I’m still grappling with the unsettling realization that I might be drawn to the very flames I should be avoiding.

Chapter 4

Victor

Thecrispmorningairbites at my skin as I make my way toward the Carter Family Foundation. Last night's dinner with Sophia refuses to fade, lingering at the back of my mind like an unshakable memory. I've always prided myself on keeping emotions at arm's length, but something about her—her fire, her authenticity—has breached my armor. It's unsettling, to say the least.

A man in my position can't afford vulnerabilities.

Which is why I’m here. It's strategic, a calculated move to understand more about the Carters, their ventures, and the weight of the legacy Sophia fights so passionately to uphold. The foundation stands as a testament to their name, their brand in society. I need to gauge its worth, its potential, and any hidden pitfalls.

But beneath that calculated exterior, there's also a nagging curiosity about the woman who's managed to unsettle me. About what drives her, and what this foundation truly means to her.

As I push through the grand double doors, I half expect to be met with an ostentatious display of the Carter family's wealth. But what greets me instead stops me dead in my tracks.

The wide, marble-floored atrium buzzes with life. A group of young students, badges proudly displaying "CFF Scholarship Recipient," gather around a guide who animatedly discusses a particular program. Their eyes gleam with hope and ambition, a stark contrast to the deadened eyes I often encounter in my line of work.

To my left, a large black and white photograph catches my attention. It's of a man—Sophia’s father, unmistakable with those familiar, sharp eyes. Beneath it, an engraved plaque bears the words: "Empowerment isn't a handout; it's a hand up. We rise by lifting others."

For a brief moment, I'm transported away from my world of ledgers, threats, and debts, to a place where one's wealth isn't just about accumulation, but elevation. I came prepared for a charade, but it seems there's more to the Carters, and Sophia, than meets the eye.

As I venture deeper into the building, my eyes catch a familiar silhouette through the glass panels of a conference room. It's Sophia. The pull is almost magnetic, drawing me toward her, even if I try to convince myself it's just curiosity.

Navigating through a maze of corridors, I find myself closer to that room, standing just outside, taking a discreet vantage point. I lean against a column, hidden in its shadow, watching her intently. Sophia sits at the head of the table, surrounded by a team of advisors. Her raven-black hair, cascading like a waterfall down her back, captures the ambient light, making her the undeniable focal point of the room.

Every gesture, every word she utters oozes with conviction. This isn’t the Sophia I dined with last night or the Sophia in mourning I first encountered. Here, she is a force. Every word is laced with passion, every gesture decisive.

She's not asking; she's leading.

I'm so engrossed in watching this side of her that I almost miss the moment her gaze sweeps the room and lands on me. There's a flicker of surprise in those emerald depths, quickly replaced by wariness. It's clear she hadn't expected to see me here, in her domain.

The weight of her gaze triggers something unfamiliar in my chest—a mix of admiration and... vulnerability? This sensation of being laid bare is disconcerting, even if it's just for a fleeting second before she breaks the connection.

I straighten, reminding myself of why I'm here, even as a voice in my head taunts that maybe I'm just looking for excuses to be near her.

As the meeting adjourns, she takes a moment to gather her belongings, each movement graceful yet deliberate. The fitted skirt suit she's chosen for the day emphasizes her hourglass silhouette, and I find myself momentarily captivated by the curve of her waist, the gentle swell of her hips. It's a dangerous kind of allure, and I have to remind myself to refocus.

"What are you doing here?” she asks with a sharp edge to her tone.

"I wanted to see what the Carter Family Foundation is all about," I reply. "I thought it might be enlightening."

She contemplates me for a moment. "Fine," she gives in. "Let me show you around."

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